Mornin'
by rplotkin
Summary: Oh those sweet awkward morning afters. Thank goodness for Vodka.
1. Mornin'

The room reeked of cheap vodka. Light flooded in under tussled blinds, coloring the musty air until it hit at the clothes, scattered on the floor, meeting with the shadow cast by the undone bed.

The sound of squealing car tires and gunshots tore Ryan from sleep. A palm came up to rub the hangover from his face, stiff neck turning to the body that lay next to him. He rose from the bed, steadying himself on the creaking mattress and walked over to the window where his coffee maker taunted him.

He groaned, moving slowly to open the ground coffee beans, dumping the contents into the filter. Even the small beep that came from hitting the on button irritated him.

The sleeping figure turned over as he pulled the blinds up. Pouring himself a cup of something that was far too bitter to be considered coffee.

Outside, life continued. Children waited for the bus, clerks opened stores; people smiled. They laughed. No matter how many people Joe Carroll killed, people remained unaffected, unaware. Life went on. He may have been left with the memories on repeat, only to be blurred with constant replenishments of alcohol, but the people out there? They only knew what little they read in the paper, what was shown in the news and once the headline changed, people forgot. God, if only Ryan could forget.

Ryan's quiet little sojourn down memory lane was interrupted by a low yawn. He stiffened.

"Guhmorning." An involuntary shrug, Ryan gave a slight look over his shoulder, gaze still shifted away from the blonde haired, blue-eyed mess that sat on his bed. Lips pulled together, Ryan brought the cup to his lips.

"Nothing? Really?" Mike gave a light sigh, fingers gripping into the mattress. "So we're just gonna…what? Pretend this didn't happen." Eyes watched Ryan hopefully before scrunching his mouth to the side. A shake of the head and Mike was up, grabbing pants and kicking legs through them, feverishly searching for the white work tee they'd lost somewhere between the drinks, door and the bed.

Ryan watched him in the reflection of the window, eyes squinting through the sunlight that now rested high in the skyline. Mike was looking for an explanation, and Ryan didn't have one. He couldn't think about what last night was. Joe needed to be his priority and admittedly he was slipping.

Mike started, lips parting but drew them closed, jaw clenched, and headed out the door.

Ryan only turned after the door had slammed, left corner of his mouth drawing upward. "See ya at work, Mike."


	2. We're Okay

"This seat taken?" Fingers strummed against the faded bar top, ears tuning out the bustle of a surprisingly large, for a Tuesday night, drunken mass.

Mike gave a light shrug, fingers gripping tighter around the glass of bourbon that sat, more than half full, in front of him.

Ryan found himself nitpicking at the details of Mike's chosen establishment. It was brighter than a bar should be, a sour musty stench draped over the floor, along with splatters of dried blood. There was only one bartender, which, with the size of the crowd was unusual.

A light shake of the head and he was waving the bartender over, holding up two fingers, mouth forming the word 'beer'. He smiled at his drinking companion and went to remove the glass from Mike's hands.

"Bourbon is for losers and old men." A smirk on his face, Ryan downed the remaining contents and let his body shudder with the taste. "Like me." The smirk widened and he handed a beer over to his blue eyed friend, attempting to keep his own eyes from wavering over Mike's banged and scraped face.

"You don't have to do this." The words came out in a barely audible mutter before the beer bottle met his lips.

"Do what?" Ryan furrowed his brows, face wrinkling with guilt and curiosity.

"This. The whole act." He pursed his lips. "You feel bad. I get it." Mike shook his head. "But I'm fine."

"Hey, Weston..." Ryan nudged his shoulder.

"If you're worried about me telling anyone, don't be." A scoff passed through chaffed lips. "It'll be like nothing happened, promise."

"Mike." Ryan's hand gripped into Mike's shoulder, thumb rubbing above his collarbone. "I don't regret what we did."

Eyes met and Ryan offered a smile. "I came here to make sure you were okay." He shook his head, flashback to that first night in the hospital, the guilt and fear Ryan had felt, running on repeat. "That's all."

"Another beer, boys?"

"No, uh, I think we're okay." Mike quipped, allowing a small smile, eyes still on Ryan's.


End file.
